


Queen's Request

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, getting-to-know-each-other sex, post-game smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s a joke here somewhere,” Alistair says, laugh a little breathless, and fingers twitching against the back of his neck.</p>
<p>“Something about Ferelden and…dogs.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen's Request

**Author's Note:**

> For the tumblr intimacy/domesticity meme, and the prompt "learning what the other person likes sexually"

They’re a week into their new marriage when she expresses her wish.

“Oh. You want to–”

“Yes.”

She’s seated on the bed, dressing robe loose and hair curling from her bath. An outward calm he knows well – well enough to notice the smaller things, like the teeth clamped down on the inside of her lower lip and the subtle shift of her gaze. She’s always managed to bury her nerves with an appearance of composure, a method that served her well during the Blight.

His own method, sadly, is ill-timed humour.

“There’s a joke here somewhere,” Alistair says, laugh a little breathless, and fingers twitching against the back of his neck.

“Something about Ferelden and…dogs.”

Elissa’s own laugh chases some of the nervousness from her expression, but not all of it. Some of it remains, uneasy clouds in her eyes.

“So you’ve – you’ve done it like this before?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking – he knows she had a lover once, back in Highever. He doesn’t like to think about it, but he thinks about it now, along with her declaration. It’s hard not to. And he’d asked, hadn’t he?  _I want it to be good for you,_ he’d said.  _Tell me how._

A nod. “I – it usually works best, in that position. Ah, it just…didn’t seem a good time to bring it up, on the road.”

He knows there’s more to it – a reluctance for things to go too fast, perhaps. When he’d admitted to his regrettable chastity, she’d been surprised, and delighted at first. But when things had progressed past the point of hands bumping in passing and lingering kisses behind the tents, the delight diminished some, as his inexperience failed to yield certain…results.

There’d been nights where he’d lay awake wondering, if the fault was his that she couldn’t find release. His own seemed a remarkably simple matter, so easily prompted by the feel of her under his hands, the heat of her around him. She never pretended, only apologized – said she was too wound-up, that the lack of privacy was unnerving. He’d thought to ask then, if it had always been this way, but he hadn’t dared, had been scared to break the fragile respite they’d found, and squander the trust she’d granted him. Scared that she’d realize how much better she could do (someone who could leave her shaking and boneless and  _sated_ ), and end things.

“And this is…better for you?” he asks now, because she is his wife, his Queen, and there’s no Blight to blame and their privacy is ensured by stone walls, but still their lovemaking leaves her wanting.

Elissa nods again. “It’s, uh, the angle. It’s – better.”

_Better_ , she says, with the assurance that speaks of trial and error, and he tries not to think of the other lover who helped her discover this. It’s an intimate knowledge, but he won’t get caught up in envy of a man long gone, when there is clearly a way to remedy this disparity. And so instead he thinks of his wife, and the stress that still sits in her rigid shoulders though their battle is long fought, and finds that if he could he’d ask the bloody sod himself, if it meant knowing what could help her relax.

They’ve been quiet for some time, and despite his thoughts, Alistair wants to laugh. Stumbling, fumbling idiots, the both of them. Married a week and broaching the subject of intimacy like they’ve never even touched – as though he doesn’t know every inch of her, curves and scars and the texture of her skin, the small bumps along her thighs and the way she moulds against him. And he might not have known  _this_ , but there’s only one way to go about changing that.

“On your knees then.”

Her brows raise, climbing towards her hairline in an arch that betrays her surprise, but the smile that makes her mouth curve is decidedly pleased.

“What?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything, and keeps from shifting his weight. 

Her smile only grows. “I feel as though you’re about to offer me a knighthood. Or lop my head off.”

Once that comment might have made him hesitate, and doubt if he’s at all cut out for seduction of any sort. But the part of him that remembers her frustration (the small fists clenched against his back and the tears at the corners of her eyes), doesn’t have time to bother with uncertainty.

“On your knees.”

Tongue in her cheek, she’s trying to hide her smile now, and holding his gaze, begins to work loose the knot at the front of her robe.

“As my King demands it.”

It’s a casual gesture, made seemingly without effort. The robe discarded, soft silk slipping down her shoulders, she flips on her stomach, before rising up until she’s kneeling, head rested on her arms and the wet curls of her hair fanning against the bedding.

The sight drives all coherent thought from his mind.

“Alistair?”

And there’s humour there now, tingeing her voice with laughter. She’s not looking towards him, but the invitation is clear in the arch of her back; the slight spread of her legs. He swallows thickly, and wonders at her ability to render him speechless, even after everything they’ve been through.

He’s almost painfully hard when he comes to stand by the foot of the bed, and when he moves to grasp her hips it’s with less care than he usually shows. And there are no gently reverent touches now, slender fingers tracing the waistline of his trousers, to pull them down his hips, inch by inch. Instead he shucks them himself without ceremony, shirt and smalls following, and when his fingers dig into her skin it draws a moan from deep in her chest. He’s halfway tempted to ask if she’s ready, but discounts it as a rather pointless question. Even so, he takes care when he enters, nudging her legs further apart for better reach. But the sigh loosed from her lips gives him courage, and his next thrust pushes her against the mattress, her breath rising to a groan that carries. An almost desperately vulgar sound, and nothing like she’d ever made with only the fabric of a tent separating their privacy from the rest of their companions. 

Oh, this – is going to be quick, he fears. The sight of her bent over is almost too much, the plunge of her back and her face pressed against the bed, and he fears he’ll come before she does.

As though sensing his urgency, “It would help–” the words dissolve into another groan. “ _Touch_ ,” she manages, and despite the breathless quality of her voice it rings with surprising command. Any reservations she’d had about asking for pleasure is gone, replaced with something bolder. And he doesn’t have to think twice, releasing his grip on her hip to slide his hand between her legs. The next word she spits is an oath, an ugly, vicious thing despite the fact that she’s never looked lovelier, deprived of all that careful control that had kept her standing all through the Blight. And he doesn’t feel clumsy now, like he’s fumbling through the motions, fingers stroking the slick heat of her sex. Not when it elicits a noise that shoots straight to his gut, a whimper dying with the hitch of her breath.

He’s beginning to wonder just how long he’ll last, when the sudden clench of her around him drags him back, followed by a cry lost amidst the pillows, and – there’s nothing frustrated about this sound, and when her fingers fist in the bedding it’s with a different kind of desperation than the one he knows.

He’ll find time to be surprised later, that with the whole of her exposed before him, it’s the sight of her hands that does it, her knuckles white and shaking with her grip against the silk sheets as she shudders, muscles contracting until she’s sagging against the mattress. And then he’s bucking against her, a wordless release to follow her own, leaving him over-warm and heaving as he hunches over her bent form. Sweat coats her skin in a fine sheen, and he tastes it with the lazy kiss pressed to the small of her back.

Pulling out yields a sigh, and the bed welcomes his tired weight, dipping below it as he rolls on his back. On her stomach now, there’s a foreign inelegance to her languid sprawl. “Oh, definitely – something,” she breathes. “Dogs.” She laughs, silly, gasping. “Something about dogs.  _Fuck_.”

Alistair grins, fingers running through her still-damp hair. “I’ve never seen you this inarticulate.”

Her next laugh is a hum, low and melodic, and when she scoots closer to press a kiss to his shoulder there’s a lethargy to her movements that makes him inordinately pleased. “You learn something new every day.”

Hand stilling by her ear, he remembers her earlier reluctance. “You’ll tell me? If there’s anything else I can do?”

Her expression softens, but pleasure still sits, bright in her eyes. “Okay.”

He can’t help himself. “Unless it’s something really weird. I draw the line at anything that could end with my smalls on display.”

His wife laughs, the sound from deep in her stomach; a carefree joy in her new, heaving breaths as she buries her head in the sheets. Alistair is almost tempted to take back the words. If it can leave her this happy, he’d do just about anything.

And pin his smallclothes to the Chantry board himself.


End file.
